Fountain shook his head. “And to think the Gower boy started out at Harvard. That’s a long way to fall.”

After a brief pause, Watts continued. “I’m sure you’re aware that, despite little obvious evidence of recent lootings, there’s been a notable upsurge in unprovenanced antiquities hitting the market. It’s been going on long enough now to make me concerned. Given the lack of provenance, it would seem that the looting of historic and prehistoric sites is involved … except in this case, done with painstaking care and research. Sophisticated. Most looters just leave their holes, but maybe these guys fill them in and make it look like nothing happened.”

“Interesting theory.” Fountain took a sip of coffee. “In order to work, the racket would have to be well organized. I’d speculate that such a group would stay away from the Gower boy. Too big a risk. Besides, these black market antiquities you mentioned are valuable. I’d guess that most of the stuff in that old Gower shed isn’t in that class.”

Watts smiled grimly. “We were wondering if you had any insight into who the kid might have been selling to.”

Fountain leaned back in his seat. “Exactly what kind of relics did you find up there, Sheriff ?”

“Civil War bullets and buttons, bottles, arrowheads, old magazines and books, a couple of busted banjos—that kind of stuff.”

“No documents? Receipts?”

“No.”

“Too bad.” Fountain pursed his lips. “You don’t think Gower had anything of real value? The great-grandfather was a junk dealer—not to put too fine a point on it.”

“What was junk seventy-five years ago might have become valuable today.”

Morwood now broke in. “Speaking of that, among the finds up there was a nineteenth-century Native American drawing, hidden in the chicken coop.”

At this, Fountain’s eyebrows, bushy as mustachios, shot up. “Ledger art? How interesting.”

“So I’m told.”

“That, at least, might be worth a lot. Did he know it was there? I can’t imagine why he didn’t sell it.”

“And another thing,” Morwood said, “which we’re keeping confidential for now. Turns out the Rivers death was a homicide.”

For the first time, Fountain’s face lost its usual expression of glib jocularity in place of real shock. “Murdered? In the hospital?”

“Yes. Someone injected a deadly drug into his IV drip. A guy wearing a phony MP uniform. We got a video of him.”

“Did you ID him?”

“No,” Morwood said. “African American, tall, thin. He probably knew where the video cameras were and was careful to hide his face. The point is, both Rivers and the Gower kid seemed to be involved in the relic business … and both were murdered. We’re wondering how it might fit together.”

Fountain took another swig of coffee and set the mug down. “You may recall that several prehistoric graves were dug up in Bonito Canyon a few months ago?”

Watts nodded. “I remember that.”

“I don’t think anyone would have known if a photographer hadn’t compared two pictures he’d taken a month apart and noticed some discrepancies. That was a professional job—the kind a sophisticated, organized group like the one you’re talking about might have pulled off. Like I said before, you really think such a group of professionals would get involved with an addict like Gower—or an ex-con like Rivers?”

“It’s an avenue we’re exploring,” Watts said. “You haven’t heard any rumors that might give us a lead?”

“Not specifically,” said Fountain. “But I’m pretty sure that if this gang does exist, they’re not local.”

“Why do you say that?” Morwood asked.

Fountain chuckled. “As a defense attorney, I’ve come to know pretty much every shady character—lowlife and otherwise—in Socorro County. Hell, I saved some of their asses from prison. If this were local, I would have heard something.” He finished his coffee and poured himself another. “I’ll certainly put out some feelers. Gower’s meth would have come out of Albuquerque, and the kind of group you’re postulating would probably operate from a large city, too.” He contemplated his fresh cup for a moment. “I can think of one lead you might find useful. There’s a bar down in San Pasqual called the Cascabel Tavern. Rivers used to hang out there before he cleaned himself up, and he had a big mouth. It’s a long shot, but you might see if anyone heard anything.”

“Thanks.”

“Just be careful—the Cascabel is a notorious hangout for doomsday preppers and anti-government types.”

“Thanks for your time and your advice.” Morwood nodded and rose. “We’ll add the Cascabel to our list. Along with High Lonesome.”

“High Lonesome?” Fountain asked.

“Whatever’s going on here, High Lonesome seems to be at the center of it. Since we’re starting to pile up more bodies than clues, the FBI has decided to send the ERT up there again, in force, to do a proper search. Comb every inch of the place, maybe even take it apart if we have to.”

“That would be a shame,” Fountain said, while Watts looked aghast.

“Yes, it would. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” And Morwood turned to leave. “Thank you, Mr. Fountain.”